


The Sansa Stark Appreciation Society

by blodeuweddbach



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Poetry club, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-02 00:04:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17877338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blodeuweddbach/pseuds/blodeuweddbach
Summary: Second-year Literature student Sansa Stark finally achieves her goal of setting up the University of King's Landing's first ever Poetry Appreciation Society.Too bad it only has one member, who doesn't seem to even like poetry all that much.





	The Sansa Stark Appreciation Society

Thirty signatures. That was all Sansa had needed to achieve her year-long dream of starting the University of King’s Landing’s first ever Poetry Appreciation Society. It had seemed a difficult task at first; no one she knew shared her unparalleled devotion to Medieval courtship verse, so she had practically begged her housemate Margaery to help her get some names on her sign-up sheet before Freshers was over.

“Sure, I can get you the names,” Margaery had told her with the easy confidence of the effortlessly popular. “Can’t guarantee they’ll actually turn up though.”

That hadn’t mattered, Sansa had reassured her friend. There were some people on her Literature course that had seemed interested when she’d mentioned her brainchild to the group chat. She had no doubt that some of them would come along to the first meeting, scheduled for the first of October, provided she met the signup threshold.

The student union’s email to tell her she had been successful, several weeks later, had stayed open on Sansa’s laptop for an hour as she celebrated her victory. She did this by planning the inaugural meeting over the course of several cups of coffee. She was determined to make this newfound society one of the university’s best; a perfect mix of thoughtful literary appreciation and an opportunity to socialise and make new friends. There would be tea, she decided, and as many cakes as she could carry from the off-license round the corner. She sent an email to each signatory that they should bring a copy of their favourite poem as an ice-breaker, and be ready to play some fun introductory games.

In short, it was the happiest day of Sansa’s university career.

That happiness fell faster than a lead balloon as October 1st rolled around, and at the scheduled time the room she had booked in the Union building remained stubbornly empty. Ever the optimist, Sansa couldn’t quite believe it at first. She checked and double-checked the emails she’d sent out, wondering if she’d made an error as to the time or place of the Poetry Appreciation Society’s first meeting. When she’d confirmed she had, in fact, written everything down perfectly, she found herself sitting quite despondently in a silent room, with only a table full of shop-bought cupcakes for company.

She knew not all the signatories would turn up. Margaery had told her as much, but Sansa hadn’t minded. It wouldn’t have mattered if even two or three people had bothered to come; she’d gotten enough signatures to start the society, and she could build her numbers from there. It was a niche interest, but Sansa had been hopeful she could have piqued other people’s interest in the poetic arts in time.

 _I didn’t even get one person to turn up,_ she realised, the thought bringing her close to tears. After all her hard work and planning, not one soul had felt interested in the Society enough to come along to its first-ever meeting. It seemed abundantly clear, in those stretching silent minutes, that Sansa’s dream of running a society would be over before it had even begun.

Feeling the familiar prickle of tears at the back of her eyes, and the telltale squeeze of her throat, she decided to ward off the inevitable by stuffing one of the lemon cupcakes into her mouth. They were delicious, she thought sadly, trying to ignore the tears she could feel fall on her perfectly made-up cheeks. At least this way she wouldn’t have to share them.

“Am I late?”

The sudden interruption of a rough voice made Sansa jump in her seat. Wheeling around, she took in the man silhouetted in the doorway. His head brushed the top of the wood. She knew in an instant who it was; in the same instant, she wondered why in Westeros _he_ of all people had decided to attend.

It was also in that moment that Sansa became aware of the fact that her mouth was glued together with the remains of a lemon cupcake, the icing of which was smeared around her mouth. Hastily swallowing, brushing at her lips with her sleeve, she managed to find her voice at last.

“Uh, no… you’re fine.”

Sansa nearly winced at how nervous she sounded. _Gods_ , she was meant to be in charge of this whole endeavour, even if it was a waste of time. Clearing her throat, and trying on her best smile, she signalled to the circle of empty chairs around her. 

“Please, take a seat.”

Sandor Clegane pushed himself away from the doorframe, and he lowered himself into the chair directly opposite her. Sansa was half surprised that he made no comment about the lack of other attendees; from what she knew of the Hound, as everyone called him, he would not usually have missed an opportunity to mock her misfortune.

He was a master’s student if she remembered correctly- engineering, perhaps? All that Sansa knew for certain was that the Hound was older than herself, closer to thirty than twenty, and notoriously bad tempered. He had lived with one of Margaery’s friends during his third year of undergraduate, and had gained something of a reputation for his foul mouth and even fouler disposition.

“I didn’t know you liked poetry,” Sansa began, a little tremulously. She wasn’t quite sure where to rest her eyes. Along with his rather repellent personality, Clegane was unfortunate enough to have significant burns down one half of his face. They were fearsome to behold. 

In the silence stretching between them, Sansa recalled the first time she had ever seen him, on her way home very tipsy from a party in her first year. Jeyne had insisted they stop for chips on the way, and that was where they had run into the Hound. Under the industrial lighting of a dodgy takeaway, his scars had glistened red and raw. Jeyne had been speechless with fright as they stood in the doorway, blocking his exit; Sansa alone had managed an apology, but her voice had been full of nerves.

Since then, they had run into each other several times at one social event or another. The Hound had barely said two words to her during any of them, and she had been glad; despite every courtesy she had been taught, she had to admit that he frightened her.

Then, one night, she had headed to the campus ATM after attending a guest lecture, only to be pulled by him into a dark doorway. Sansa had nearly screamed, but something in the way his hand was holding her upper arm- not ungently- made her strangely sure he would not harm her.

He had made her look at his scars, and she could smell alcohol on his breath as he’d rasped her the awful story of how he had gotten them. It had been frightening, and very inappropriate, but whenever she recalled that night Sansa had been mostly overwhelmed by pity. 

_His own brother did that to him,_ she reminded herself as she stared at the Hound’s scarred face from across the empty circle. _I would be angry at the world too._

“How would you know what I liked?” Clegane answered gruffly, narrowing his eyes at her. They were grey, she noticed for the first time. She had only ever seen them while drunk or in the dark, so it had been hard to tell. “Far as I can tell, I’m the only one who turned up to this bloody meeting, aren’t I? Isn’t that dedication, now.”

His rough voice was dripping with sarcasm. Sansa was determined not to let the opportunity pass her by, however; if she could convince the Hound to enjoy himself, perhaps he would return next week. Maybe then she could try and get other people to join, and she would have herself a fully-fledged society. Certainly, Clegane was… an unorthodox member of a poetry club, but if her study of literature had taught her anything, it was that books ought not be judged by their covers.

“You’re right,” she conceded, with what she hoped was her most conciliatory tone of voice. “I shouldn’t have assumed. Poetry is for everyone, after all.” Reaching behind her, Sansa pulled the tray of cupcakes into her grasp, holding them out toward the Hound. 

“Want one?”

Clegane eyed her for a moment, as though trying to guess whether she had poisoned them. When she held his gaze, however difficult it felt, he seemed to relent and took one. He ate it with as little preamble as Sansa had earlier, and it was gone in two big bites. 

“So,” she began, not wanting them to lapse into silence again. The Hound had the decency to turn up to her meeting, and she would do her best not to disappoint him. Clearly he must like poetry, so they would discuss poetry. “Did you want to start the discussion?"

To her dismay, Clegane shook his head tersely. “You go first.”

 _As if I haven’t been carrying the conversation already._ Suddenly awkward, Sansa fumbled in the bag at her feet until she found what she was looking for- her beloved compendium of Medieval verse.

“This is my favourite,” she heard herself say, almost hurriedly in her embarrassment. She wouldn’t have been ashamed to talk about these things with anyone else, but with the weight of the Hound’s eyes on her so difficult to ignore it felt strangely intimate to be talking about something so close to her heart. “It’s _Florian and Jonquil._ It was written during the height of the Targaryan dynasty. Have you ever read it?”

She dared to peek over at the huge man opposite her. He folded his enormous arms as he studied her, the burned corner of his mouth twitching erratically. 

“I’ve read it,” he answered bluntly. “It’s about a fool and his cunt.”

Sansa nearly gaped at Clegane’s language. “It’s about more than that!” She found herself protesting, feeling the colour rise into her cheeks. Gods, she loathed her complexion in that moment- she never could hide her blushes, angry or not. “It’s a beautiful story, really. Jonquil overlooks Florian’s lowly status and defies all the expectations of both her class and her gender-“

“A story that’s been told a thousand times,” Clegane protested, as though bored by her words. “And without so much reliance on rhyming couplets.”

Sansa found herself blinking at him. While she knew, theoretically, that the Hound could not be stupid, given that he was a postgraduate student at one of Westeros’ foremost centres of higher education, to hear him use such terms was a little surprising.

Mentally scolding herself for her presumption, Sansa tried to think of a rebuttal.

“It’s a staple of courtly love poetry,” she maintained, a little cowed. “And practically defined the works of the period. Even if you don’t like the poem yourself, you have to admit that it is an important piece of work in the literary history of Westeros, even if it is only about a fool and his… his…”

She didn’t even attempt to finish that. Clegane laughed, a harsh sound with very little mirth in it. It was like a saw through the stillness of their surroundings. 

“You take Literature, don’t you?” The Hound asked her, when his laughter had subsided. When Sansa nodded, he gave an ugly snort. “I can tell. You talk like a lecturer.”

Sansa wasn’t sure how to take that. It sounded like a compliment, but coming from a man like Clegane, she doubted that was the intention. 

“Alright then,” Sansa huffed, “your turn. I’ve talked about _my_ favourite poem, now you can tell me about yours.”

Clegane shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Don’t have one.”

Sansa stared at the paper crumpled in his huge fist. “Then what’s that?”

“Some shit I found online and printed out,” he told her. Sansa was beyond puzzled- why would he come to her meeting if he didn’t have a favourite poem? In fact, the longer she talked to the Hound, the more she was convinced that he didn’t _like_ poetry in the first place. 

That, she decided, couldn’t be the case. After all, if he didn’t like poetry, what by the Seven would he have come there for?

“Can you read it aloud?” She asked tentatively. Gods, she had not expected her first meeting to be this awkward. It was beyond disheartening.

“No,” Clegane answered bluntly. Before she could protest, he thrust the fist holding the paper out between them, looking at her expectantly with his steely gaze. “You can read it. It’ll sound better that way.”

Her nerves had started to give way to annoyance over the course of their conversation. Now, Sansa was as close to seething as she had ever been. _If he wants to be difficult,_ she thought to herself, taking the poem from the Hound’s grasp as best she could without letting her hand linger on his, _then I can be difficult, too._

Instead of reading it aloud, like he’d asked, Sansa scanned the page in silence. It was a nice poem, she decided, despite herself. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but this… wasn’t it.

“A sonnet,” she murmured aloud. That was surprising. Sonnets were predominantly love poetry, weren’t they? Again she read over the loveliest line, comparing the poem’s subject to a summer’s day. “Do you know who it was written for?”

“Some lady or other,” the Hound answered dismissively. Sansa could feel his eyes on her, but she refused to meet it. No matter how lovely the poem he had chosen, she had not yet forgiven his attitude. 

“You sound as if it doesn’t matter,” Sansa muttered, more to herself than him. “But knowing who the subject of a poem is can give deeper insight as to its meaning, surely?”

The Hound made no reply. The silence made her suddenly aware of how she sounded; like one of her professors. Her cheeks pinked at the thought. She didn’t want to come across as stuffy or academic- this was a society, and it was meant to be _fun_ , and Sandor Clegane, quite frankly, was _ruining_ it.

“You don’t like poetry,” she told him. It wasn’t a question, and she gave him no room to interrupt as she met his gaze. “So why are you wasting my time by joining a Poetry Appreciation Society?”

Once the tap of her anxieties had been turned on, Sansa couldn’t stop the flood of words that began to pour from her mouth. “Are you here to make fun of me, is that it? Silly Sansa with her silly club that no one wants to go to. I bet you’re getting a big laugh out of it.”

She might have continued her rant, aware of the rising colour in her face and the prick of tears at the back of her eyes, but the sudden glowering look that crossed Clegane’s face turned her mute.

“Did it occur to you,” the Hound said, in his dangerous rasping voice, “that while I don’t necessarily _like_ poetry, you don’t have to _like_ something to appreciate it? It’s not a ‘Poetry Admiration Society’, unless I got the damn name wrong.” 

Sansa was sure she was red by now. “I… uh… didn’t think of it like that.” It was more than a little embarrassing, to be lectured by the Hound. She had the fleeting thought that she’d prefer his shouting.

“Not everything is about you, little bird,” the man continued. His voice was almost a growl now, low and angry. “But don’t let me ruin your evening-“

He made to get out of the chair, but froze when Sansa’s hand reached out and grabbed his forearm.

“No!” She said, a little too quickly to sound anything but desperate. She _was_ desperate, she realised as Clegane slowly sank back into his seat. He was her only member- instead of questioning his motives, she should be grateful and try to win him over. Hadn’t that been the initial strategy?

Certain she was shaping up to be a hopeless society president, Sansa took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, uh… Sandor.” It felt strange using his first name, but ‘Hound’ was even stranger, and she wasn’t about to call him Clegane like some angry PE teacher. “I didn’t mean to have a go at you. I’m just disappointed that so few people turned up, and I guess it’s made me nervous.”

If the Hound noticed her use of his name, or her apology, he didn’t show it. “I’ve never really been into poetry,” he said suddenly, leaning back in his chair. “But I liked the war poems we read in school. Ones about the futility of it, usually written by soldiers. Gives a different perspective.”

Sansa lifted her head to look at him. He wasn’t watching her, eyes fixed on the ceiling lamp instead. The twitch had gone from the corner of his mouth.

“I liked those too,” Sansa agreed. It wasn’t much in the way of analysis, but it was a start. She found herself smiling a little. “They were sad, but poignant.”

“So the little bird doesn’t just read love poems,” the Hound said, glancing at her briefly. When he saw her tiny smile, Sansa could have sworn she saw the corners of his mouth twitch, as though he were suppressing one of his own.

“Not at all,” she replied. “There are so many genres and styles, and of course, some poems don’t fall into a single category. It’s a real rabbit hole once you start to look into it.” Clearing her throat with a little cough, Sansa tried to rein her enthusiasm in a bit. _Wouldn’t do to intimidate him._ The idea nearly made her laugh. “I’m hoping to go into them a bit more, if I haven’t scared you off.”

She managed to elicit a low grumbling laugh from Sandor Clegane. He gave her a sharp look, as though meeting her challenge.

“You wish.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more to come, so please don't be put off by the sudden ending of that chapter ;)
> 
> Please don't expect anything more than near-plotless tooth-rotting fluff from this fic. I would recommend a visit to your dentist after it's finished. Comments are interminably appreciated.


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